Images
by amberpire
Summary: "Can't two blokes get a good snog between classes without being interrupted, eh?" ;Seamus/Dean;


_Images_

_;;_

"What's this?"

Seamus' fingertips graze the corner of a vanilla colored envelope. It sits atop the pillow of his four poster, placed strategically in the center with almost obnoxious precision. His name is written in the middle and it is the nature of this text that makes Seamus set his jaw tightly; the loop on the bottom curve of the 's', the slight slant. It is handwriting he is very familiar with.

Before he can even get an answer, Seamus is spinning on his heel and leveling his gaze on his best mate on the bed across from him, who is trying (and failing) to hide a grin behind a textbook.

Pinching the envelope between his thumb and forefinger, Seamus lifts it and raises his eyebrows at Dean, weight cocked on one hip. "Dean."

"Shay." Dean doesn't look up. With his head bent over the words he isn't reading, Seamus can't see the crinkled dark eyes or the lips pressing into a straight line to muffle his own laughter.

Seamus tucks in his wrist before letting the envelope fly. The corner dents against Dean's white button-up before falling against his open book. The Irish boy moves to stand in front of Dean, arms crossed, face shadowed in disapproval.

"I thought we were done writin' notes to each other." Seamus extend his arm, using one finger to prop Dean's chin up. Finally, eyes so brown they're black slide into Seamus' hazel. "We stopped doin' that second year."

Dean's eyes narrow until the whites are gone. "What makes you think it's a note?"

Sandy eyebrows - that have had to regrow about a dozen times since he first started attending Hogwarts, and parts of his facial structure that he has learned to appreciate more so than most of his classmates - dig down over his eyes. Turning his attention back to the envelope, he quickly reaches down and snatches it up again. He steps back until his legs bend over the edge of his bed. He flips the envelope over a few times, running his finger along the triangle that keeps it sealed shut. When he looks up again Dean is watching him with an arched eyebrow and a tight smile.

"Well, are you going to open it or find some way to set it on fire?" Dean's smile broadens. "You've got a nasty talent for that."

Seamus makes a face. "You're a right git, Thomas."

"Love you too, tosser." He nods toward the envelope. "Just open it."

Hesitating, Seamus continues to flip the envelope. "Did I miss an anniversary?"

"No."

"Is it your birthday?" Seamus pauses. "Is it _my_ birthday?"

Dean chuckles. "No, you twit. I don't need a reason to make you something, do I?"

Still not entirely convinced that he had made some grave mistake at some point, Seamus finally tears open the back of the envelope with a satisfying _riiip_ of paper. The parchment inside pulls out with the aid of his fingers. Again, his eyes dart to Dean, who only gives him a reassuring nod onward. Setting his jaw again, Seamus finally unfolds the paper in his lap.

The envelope flutters to the floor.

He's always known that Dean was an artist - he'd seen some of the stuff he drew for Harry during the Tournament - but other than that, Dean usually kept his sketchbook to himself. Seamus isn't the type to try and pry into that sort of thing. He always figured that if Dean really wanted him to see something, he'd show him.

Like he is now.

The image before him is of himself which sits with him weird because he looks gorgeous. He's sketched in the grays of muggle pencils, his face propped by one palm and his eyes turned toward a window that isn't pictured. Seamus knows this because he remembers sitting in this position a few days ago during Transfiguration whilst watching the first flecks of snow tremble from the sky. Every detail is painfully perfect, from the minuscule dots of his freckles to every wrinkle that withered his vest and robes. Every hair on his head seems individual and severely thought about, as if Dean had slaved over the portrait for years and years, to make sure everything was perfect.

"This is the first time I've ever seen you speechless."

Seamus blinks. His eyes tear from the drawing to Dean - despite his dark skin, he can tell the boy is blushing, directing his gaze nervously to his spread hands. Seamus looks there, too, because those are the hands that crafted this ... masterpiece. How many other images had he created that he stored away in sketchbooks?

"Blimey," Seamus breathes, looking to the picture once more and being more captured than by any moving painting he's seen in the Hogwarts corridors. This muggle drawing is more magical than any spell he's ever witnessed. "Dean, how did you even -"

"Practice." Dean stands and takes two short steps to sit beside Seamus, the bed dipping with their weight. His hot arm meets Seamus'. "D'you like it?"

"_Like_ it?" Seamus is finally able to retract himself from the image. He looks at Dean and flaps his mouth uselessly. "This is right professional, you know that?"

Dean plucks at his shirt, shrugging his shoulders. Seamus has rarely seen Dean in a sheepish mood. This must be why he's never shown Seamus his art before. Because it makes him feel like ... this, whatever it is. Open. Vulnerable. Dean is the strongest boy Seamus has ever met, but everyone's got their soft spots. This must be his.

Along with Seamus himself, of course.

Seamus grins. He sets the picture on the bed and lifts his hands until they're on either of Dean's cheeks, drawing him forward. Without saying anything, he kisses his best mate on the mouth, soft and slow, and Dean melts like he always does, and his heart patters like it always does, and it feels amazing, like it always does.

"Next time you want to draw me," Seamus mumbles against Dean's parted lips, "let me know, and I'll do a much more interesting pose than this."

Dean's chuckle is deep. Seamus' breath stills in his lungs while his hair stands to attention, among other parts of his anatomy.

"You're all kinds of bloody interesting." Dean's hand is on Seamus' thigh now, scalding hot, and Seamus' breath is coming out in pathetic pants.

"Am I now?" Seamus' fingers bunch the fabric of Dean's shirt, dragging him forward and on top of him. "Then draw _all_ of me, mate. With your hands."

"Oh, I certainly plan on it - "

"Blimey, Christ almighty!"

The two boys jump at the sudden voice. Dean quickly de-tangles their limbs and coughs loudly, running one hand over his black curls and the other down his now rumpled shirt while murmuring apologies. Seamus, however, simply props himself on his elbows and smirks toward the doorway of the dorm room where Ron and Harry stand awkwardly in the threshold. Ron's ears are about as red as Harry's cheeks and both look about ready to burn to ashes.

"Can't two blokes get a good snog between classes without being interrupted, eh?"

Ron's hand curls around Harry's elbow, who throws a strained apologetic look over his shoulder before the two disappear. Seamus bursts outright into laughter while Dean busies his hands with his already made bed and rearranging his textbooks.

"Love, c'mon now, we've got privacy." Seamus pats the bed. "Let's take advantage."

Dean's eyes turn toward Seamus, whose legs are spread in a most provocative manner and whose lip is tucked between his teeth. The Gryffindor's restraint cracks. "You're awful, Shay."

"Love you too, tosser."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Deamus has become my Harry Potter OTP of all time. Deal with it._

_This is short and fluffy and I don't really know what it is, but there will be more of this in the near future._


End file.
